"Recalling Brigid" by Orna Ross

 

Recalling Brigid

Orna Ross

 

Queen of queens, they called her

in the old books, the Irish Mary.

Never washed her hands, nor her head

in sight of a man, never looked

into a man’s face. She was good

with the poor, multiplied food,

gave ale to lepers. Among birds,

call her dove; among trees, a vine.

A sun among stars.

 

Such was the sort of woman

preferred as the takeover was made:

consecrated cask, throne to His glory,

intercessor.

 

Brigid said nothing to any of this,

the reverence, or the upbraidings.

Her realm is the lacuna,

silence her sceptre,

her own way of life its own witness.

 

Out of desire, the lure of lust

or the dust of great deeds,

she was distorted:

to consort, mother-virgin,

to victim or whore.

 

I am not as womanly

a woman as she.

So I say: Let us see.

Let us say how she is the one.

 

It is she who conceives

and she who does bear.

She who knitted us in the womb

and who will cradle our

tomb-fraying.

 

Daily she offers her arms,

clothes us in compassion,

smiles as we wriggle

for baubles.

 

Yes, it is she who lifts you aloft

to whisper through your ears,

to kiss with your eyes,

to touch her cooling

cheek to your cheek.

Image: by Raul Angel on Unsplash. "One in a million," Guatemala City, Guatemala.

First published on Instagram in February 2022, then on Orna's blog, Orna Ross, on 13 February 2022.